Between Dusk and Dawn

by Alfie Thompson

  Magic curled against her and purred enthusiastically. "What are you doing out here?" Jonna murmured. "You're just warm dinner for any ol' thing wandering these hills."

  She repositioned the kitten on one arm. It snuggled closer. She tried to pick up the paint things with the other hand. The timed light in the garage went out and Jonna froze, dropping the bucket. Her tools scattered noisily. She cursed again.

  "Forget it," she whispered to Magic. "We don't need to take this stuff in tonight." The paintbrush could dry gunked up. She'd buy a new one rather than linger in the shadowy garage. She was suddenly, inexplicably, very spooked.

  Jonna crooned softly to the fur ball in her arms as she hurried to the side door. Making her way across the cov­ered porch to the house, Jonna felt vulnerable, naked to any sinister whim of man or nature. A random gust of breeze tugged at her shirt and crept beneath it. She shuddered as she reached the house.

  Slipping inside, she turned the lock behind her, walked quickly through the door that separated the enclosed entry from the main room of the house and flicked on the light. She set Magic on the floor and was about to sag against the inner door when she realized the other outside door, the one facing the drive, wasn't locked. A rush of adrenaline mul­tiplied and divided the disquieting feeling. This was crazy. She almost never locked the house, rarely even thought of it. So why did she suddenly feel terrified knowing it wasn't locked now?

  She forced herself to reopen the second door and stepped back into the foyer. Pretending a nonchalance her shaky fingers didn't emulate, she rotated the lock on the door­knob. She reached up and slipped the deadbolt into the home it had seldom known, then repeated the motion on the other side. Finally, with a controlled sigh, she returned to the other room and let its well-lit familiarity embrace her.

  Magic sat exactly where Jonna had dropped her, her head tilted as if she thought her mistress was crazy. "You're right, Magic, this is ridiculous," Jonna said. "You'd think I'd never had a stranger on the property before."

  Never one like Sam Barton.

  Lifting the cat back into her arms, Jonna stroked Mag­ic's one white spot between her eyes. "I'll bet you're ready for some milk after being outside all this time."

  Jonna opened the refrigerator door. Her hand flailed in midair as she realized with stunning certainty why she was so unnerved.

  "I didn't let you out, did I?" She lifted the sur­prised pet to eye level. Magic just purred.

  Jonna had come back into the house twice before finally leaving after her late lunch. Once to answer the phone that rang the moment she opened the door and stepped outside. The second time, she returned to put Magic, who had es­caped when Jonna came in to get the phone call, back in­side.

  She forced herself calm as she filled Magic's saucer, then walked tentatively around the room. Was anything miss­ing? Moved?

  Some of her friends had accused her of building a stage where she could perform for the whole world when she'd designed the house and perched it up here on the hill.

  The glass wall, slightly tinted to keep out some of the sun's heat, held no shades, blinds or drapes. Now, as she crossed the room, looking for hints or indications of inva­sion, her movements felt self-consciously jerky, awkward; she felt exposed.

  Usually, no one got this far onto her property without her knowledge, so she couldn't believe there had been two in­terlopers. That meant Sam Barton had let Magic out. That meant he had come in. She could feel his presence as omi­nously as if he were standing in front of her.

  What right did he have just to walk into her house? Though she didn't see anything missing or messed with, it didn't matter. A stranger—that stranger—had come, unin­vited, into her home. She felt violated.

  She stopped beside the window wall.

  She could see everything for miles, but her gaze focused in one direction.

  The farmhouse was dark but she could feel him there.

  "What were you doing in my house, Sam Barton?" She firmed her mouth. "Tomorrow, you'd best have some an­swers."

  CHAPTER TWO

  She could have been walking right toward him. Her hand curved around her waist. Her long legs, paint splattered and bare in the cut-off jeans, moved her erratically across the room. A delicate smattering of freckles peppered her cheeks and arrogant nose. Loose strands of honey-brown hair fanned unceremoniously around her face. She was a beauty, he acknowledged, a find any man would be proud to add to his collection.

  Desire hit him like an unexpected punch below his belt. But he refused to be sidetracked by instincts his mind couldn't control. He had very few actual needs—food, oc­casional rest, shelter. He had room for only one want. De­sire for the woman staring sullenly at him didn't fit on either list.

  She paused here and there, scowling, looking for some­thing, and finally arrived at the vast expanse of window. She planted her feet determinedly.

  Her hazel eyes narrowed and fired at him. Her wide ex­pressive lips moved. The memory of her voice, lyrical, edged with that subtle husk, said his name inside his head.

  Then he realized with a jolt, she was saying his name, but not kindly. He lifted his hand as if to ward her away and felt extremely foolish when his fingers came into contact with cool glass.

  Sam sheepishly lowered his binoculars and frowned. She'd been irritated, a little uneasy when she'd left here. Now she was upset. Why?

  He let the musty weight of the old drape fall back in place, separating him from the night and her searching eyes.

  She'd talked to Moss? Found out he hadn't sent Sam, maybe? No. The time between when she'd left here and when she stood at her window saying his name was too short for her to have called anyone.

  She knew he'd been in her house. The answer came as sure as if she had said it. Maybe she had. Maybe he had more of a talent for reading lips than he thought. But how? How could she know?

  It was accidental that he had arrived while she was down here, not paying attention to what he or anyone else might be doing. He'd grabbed at the chance to check out her ter­ritory, watching constantly in case she started to return to her house up on the hill.

  On his mission inside, he'd been careful not to touch anything, not to so much as curl the corner of one of the bright throw rugs that warmed the monotone, modern in­terior of her house.

  He'd haunted the edges and shadows of the rooms, care­ful to stay where he wouldn't be seen if she looked up from her work on this house.

  He had moved a chair nearer to the table and out of his way to get to the broad open risers that led upstairs. Could the chair have been in a certain position for a reason?

  He quickly discarded that idea. She had no reason to suspect anyone would go inside. If she did, her doors would have been locked. He was getting paranoid.

  He was fairly certain she hadn't examined the polished oak handrail for fingerprints either. Something else had given him away.

  His mind moved to the upper story.

  Her office was a loft overlooking the living area. On ei­ther side of the work space were bedrooms, each with its own bath.

  One had been very impersonal, a guest room, he'd as­sumed. The other had looked like her.

  Sunshine had streamed through the skylight above the bed and warmed the potpourri pots sitting in various places about the room. He had smelled roses and vanilla mixed with a seductive perfume that he'd whiffed later, every time she passed within two feet of him.

  Poppies spilled over the comforter covering the water bed and splattered, like blood, over the wallpaper and in the drapes hiding the window wall. He'd left that room quickly, before the patch of sunlight burned her essence on him as indelibly as a brand.

  Sam refrained from lifting the corner of the heavy dining room curtain again to spy on her now. She'd never see him—but he had messed up twice. He couldn't afford a third error.

  He couldn't even turn on a light. He'd said he was tired, and she'd clearly seen that the house was dark. He didn't dare do anything to elevate her su
spicions.

  He stumbled through the dark, unfamiliar surroundings, lurching against the heavy furniture. He finally found his way up the stairs. The house creaked, echoing an empty, eerie sound back to him as he made his way to the bedroom he had chosen.

  He crept to the side window and opened it an inch. He crouched there, sucking the sharp night air into his lungs. Lights still blazed in her house. He waited impatiently for her to call it a day. When his joints stiffened and pain be­gan to shoot into his extremities, he eased himself over to the bed and extended his full length on the bare, twin mattress.

  Bone-weary, be decided to rest until she went to bed. Then he could turn the lights on and move freely as he did the things he needed to do.

  Flinging his arm across his eyes, he listened to the quiet. The wind, the aches and groans of the old house and the occasional chirp of a cricket were the only distinguishable sounds. He should identify and memorize them. When the time came, he needed to recognize any noises that didn't fit.

  The mattress curved soothingly around him and drew him into the dream.

  Denise was there. Waiting. Taunting him. Telling him to go away and leave her alone.

  "Quit trying to run my life, Sam," she said insolently, tossing her dark hair. She showed him her back and fixedly ignored him. He felt his anger all over again and warned his heavy feet not to take the steps, not to close the distance be­tween them. His fingers clenched, rebelling against him as he reached for her, intent on regaining her attention. Inside his head, his own harsh voice demanded that he not lose his temper, that he stop. Panic rose. And the woman he turned in his grasp was a lifeless doll—one that had only borrowed Denise's likeness. The eyes were dull, streaked with red. The head lolled aimlessly, un-Denise-like, to the side.

  The figure before him mutated. Sun-drenched brown hair replaced the dark; clear hazel eyes supplanted the brown ones. Sam jerked himself awake with a muted cry. Even as he took an unsteady breath and sat up, he contin­ued to see a lifeless Jonna in his mind's eye.

  Cold sweat dampened his clothes; his body shook. His heart pounded as if it would burst out of his chest cavity. His silent scream continued long after he propelled himself out of the bed. He moaned and dragged himself to the window, wondering how long he'd slept.

  The edge of morning had faded the night in the eastern sky. Her house sat peacefully on top of the hill. Nothing had changed except the sounds. He sighed. It was only a night­mare, one that wouldn't become reality. This time.

  In the distance, some early bird trilled and Sam slanted his arm to the dim light. His watch showed it was a little before five in the morning.

  He'd lost time, but he still had probably an hour or two before Jonna would be up. He needed to lug in the guns. Figure out how and where to rig his equipment. And if he was going to get any more sleep from here on in—which wasn't wise, but probably unavoidable—he had to rear­range things in this house. Then he had phone calls to make.

  Sam's stomach growled as he made his way into the tiny upstairs bathroom. He brushed his hand over his jaw. A hot shower, a shave, and then he would get a lot done before he presented himself on her doorstep.

  Somehow—without getting close enough to put his plans at risk—he would mollify her, charm her into forgetting whatever it was that had made her angry.

  * * *

  The phone rang twice before Jonna got one eye open wide enough to see the clock. Who would call at six in the morn­ing? She lifted the handset from its niche in the headboard, cutting dead the third ring.

  "Jonna?" The male voice was wispy, excited. "Jonna Sanders?"

  "Huh?" Jonna cleared her throat and tried to banish the morning grogginess.

  A reedy laugh rippled through the receiver, into her ear and down her back like ghostly fingers.

  "I'm so glad I caught you." The unknown caller paused, waiting for a response.

  Jonna wasn't good at breathing this time of the day, let alone carrying on a conversation. "It would be hard to miss me this early."

  "Oh? This isn't a good time?" He sounded smug, de­lighted to have disturbed her. "Maybe you could suggest a better one?"

  She sat up, frowning.

  "Would you like me to call back later with my good news?"

  "I'm awake now," she said, growing impatient, trying to decide if she knew the caller's voice.

  "Oh, Jonna Sanders," he reprimanded her. "Don't rush me. You're out of step with the rest of the world, you know, still lazing about. Most people have to work for a living and this is the time of day the old rat race starts."

  "Who is this? Who's calling, please?"

  "Ahhh. You're hurrying me again. I like to take my time," he chided, "savor these little announcements."

  The mocking voice filled her with a strange dread. She started to hang up, irritated with herself for having listened this long.

  "You've been chosen, Jonna Sanders. Chosen to be in­ducted into The Record."

  "What?"

  "The Record," he said indignantly, as if she was brash for asking.

  He obviously thought she should know what The Record was. She frantically searched her mind.

  "Oh, don't worry about it, Jonna Sanders. You've been chosen to be included in a very exclusive book with some other very important award winners. I'll be in touch real soon. We'll finalize the details and I'll explain everything. All will be made clear." There was something eerie in his enunciation. He talked slowly, softly, as if he were awed by his own words. "We'll meet soon, I promise."

  "Who did you say—"

  "The award." The voice darkened. "Surely you remem­ber the award?"

  "Of course, but—"

  "That explains everything, doesn't it, Jonna Sanders?" He returned to his singsong delivery. "Your place in The Record is reserved. And you don't have to do a thing. No one can take it from you now.''

  "I'm afraid I don't und-"

  "I assure you, when it's important, you will fully under­stand," the voice promised. "I'll be in touch." And the re­ceiver clicked in her ear.

  She was wide awake now. She held the phone away from her, eyeing it questioningly, reluctant to break her end of the connection until the bizarre conversation made sense. Slowly, she pressed the button to disconnect.

  What was that all about? She glanced at the clock again. The revelation that less than five minutes had passed sent her snuggling back beneath the heavy comforter.

  Drowsing on Jonna's feet at the end of the bed, Magic reshaped herself around the tent Jonna's toes made as she sprawled and stared at the ceiling.

  That damn award. She wished she could get half as ex­cited about it as the rest of the world seemed to be. Her winning design had made the front cover of Architectural News. They'd run her picture with the house plans in Clas­sic American Home.

  Shoot, even the Whitfield weekly had done a front-page story on her. Half a page. But then a trip to New York City could get you front page coverage in a slow news week in a town the size of Whitfield. And the stories were more about the renowned traveler not getting mugged or murdered than about what the local hick did while he was in the big, bad city.

  She guessed she ought to be glad the story focused on her award rather than on the fact that she was a woman archi­tect.

  Jonna shook her head and yawned. What she wouldn't have done to get the recognition while her father was still alive. He would have been so proud.

  She contradicted the thought as quickly as it pierced her brain. "Don't kid yourself."

  She punched her pillow, turned over and burrowed deeper into the gentle wave she caused. Her father would have been surprised, but not necessarily proud.

  When she had chosen her career, he'd admonished her for taking on a man's job. She found it only mildly amusing that all the people who had come out of the woodwork to side with her father then were rallying around her now as if it had been their idea for her to study architecture in the first place.

  Maybe he would have been impressed that some
one was going to put her in some kind of who's-who book—even if be realized the whole thing was probably a scam to try to sell her an expensively bound copy of it. But proud? No.

  Jonna smothered another yawn with the back of her hand and glanced at the clock again. Why would anyone call so early?

  Probably one of those Easterners who assumed that if she was capable of winning an award, she had to be in the same time zone as he. Everyone on the East Coast assumed all who lived a hundred miles west had dropped off the face of the earth and rendered themselves ineligible.

  Maybe the caller was the kook who had been phoning people all over town and asking questions about her. Kooks might actually get up this early.